The Juicy Memoir of a Woman with Brain Cancer
After my brain cancer diagnosis, I wrote a juicy memoir airing my ex-huband’s liar-stained laundry. I’m over the drama, but I might as well get something for my trouble, right?
He tried to gaslight me once about its contents, insinuating I was the liar or misremembering when I had intentionally obscured details.
When that didn’t get me to doubt myself, he promised to help me market my book. Yes, even after all the laughable Author Solutions drama he started.
When his offer to make me internet famous didn’t get me fawning over his generosity, I reached into my very effective Rodney repellent toolkit and blogged about him some more.
As if on cue, he scurried away from the truth like vampires running from daylight.
Who You Gonna Believe is “pretty good story telling,” he wrote via my contact form as I recovered from more chemo.
But he’s a compulsive (pathological? maybe?) lliar. So who knows.
Anyway, it’s tiresome to promote this book because I am cancer weary and just generally not interested in book promotion. But money is tight after more health insurance shenanigans, so here I am. Asking you to tell a friend about it or read it if you haven’t yet.
(It’s free with ads. You don’t have to give up money to help me buy Dan’s meds this month.)
You can read the whole ebook—did I mention it’s free and infuriatingly funny?—on this website, right this very second.
Or you can subscribe to my Substack and get it delivered one chapter at a time, on the first of every month, to your email inbox.
Here’s an excerpt from Chapter 4: Liar, Liar:
I was born on March 4, 1980 at Gibson General Hospital with a fully functioning bullshit detector. I didn’t know how to use it, or even that I had one, until my mid-twenties though. Here’s how I discovered it:
One Tuesday circa 2006 or 2007 (I could probably pin down an exact date if I had the energy to dig, but I don’t) I was driving home from my part-time job at The Saturday Evening Post. Light from a Long John Silver’s sign reflected off the windshield of my Malibu and the AC vents pulled in hints of fried fish and seasoned salt. I was having some super serious dinner thoughts while waiting for the light to turn green when my cell phone started ringing. It was Rodney’s ringtone. I couldn’t dig it out of my bag. I was driving.